Self-styled a goddess, mocked me, not respecting
Maidenly modesty; but in the path
Of grace, wherein I thought to walk enstated
High as my rank without reproach, she hath set
A snare for every step; that day by day,
From morn to night, I might do nothing well;
But by most innocent seeming be betrayed
To what most wounds a shamefast life, yielding
To a man’s unfeignèd feigning; nay nor stayed
Until I had given,—alas, how oft!—